


if you get a little bit of charred crust, just tell them it's well done

by ransomdrysdale



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Baking, F/M, Fluff, Food Porn, Kid Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Stress Baking, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ransomdrysdale/pseuds/ransomdrysdale
Summary: Steve Rogers loves his kid and his job. Sarah's four going on twenty five and raising her on his own is the biggest accomplishment of his life. Being a chef and senior editor for Bon Appetit comes in a close second.Bucky Barnes has finally found contentment as a pastry chef at a midtown bakery after his car accident, and has grown used to his quiet little routine when Pepper Potts, Stark Industries CEO and the woman who runs half of Manhattan, turns his life upside-down and offers him a job at her magazine.Soon after, Bucky's found himself at a work station, in front of a camera, attempting to make a gourmet version of [insert candy and/or snack product] for millions of people to watch on YouTube.Oh, and he's fallen in love with that ridiculous blonde lumberbro and his adorable daughter.Or: The SteveBucky Bon Appetit AU
Relationships: Alpine the Cat & James "Bucky" Barnes, James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers & Thor
Comments: 21
Kudos: 96





	if you get a little bit of charred crust, just tell them it's well done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adhoori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adhoori/gifts).

> EDIT AUG 2020: If you’re familiar with BA then you’ll also know that things have come to light there that are ugly and terrible. I don’t know if I’ll return to this story given that... but I’ll leave it all up just in case. Be well and be kind. 
> 
> I began this decade writing prolifically back when I was active on tumblr, and all of that died away thanks to real life, responsibilities, and adulting in general. As 2019 closes, I decided that I wanted to get back into writing as I move into the new decade. My story weaknesses have always been kid fic and chef fic, so, unsurprisingly, I chose to tackle this idea as a bit of self-indulgence.
> 
> You don't need to have seen anything from the [Bon Appetit YouTube channel](https://www.youtube.com/user/BonAppetitDotCom) to enjoy this story... but if you _do_, you will (hopefully) get a kick out of any and all references I pepper into the story.
> 
> This entire story is dedicated to [adhoori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adhoori/gifts), who is my cheerleader both for this story and in life. Aanal... this literally exists because of you. So thank you infinitely.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy creating it! Happy New Year!
> 
> PS: The story title and each chapter title are actual words that have come out of either Claire Saffitz or Brad Leone's mouths. Bonus points to you if you can recall which episodes they're from. :)

[ ](https://ibb.co/CBrzySM)

Bucky wakes up to Alpine stretching out over his face.

The cat’s contented _ mrrp _ drowns out Bucky’s disgruntled growl. Alpine seems to know when it’s the weekend - when it’s Bucky’s day to sleep in - so naturally, she makes a habit of harassing her long-suffering owner at six on his day off when Bucky really, truly wants to be dead to the world ‘til ten.

“I’m up, you monster,” Bucky grumbles, giving Alpine a little shove so he can rub his eyes. The cat jumps off the bed and onto the dresser, curling up next to a framed photo of Bucky and his nephews out at Coney Island the summer prior. In the shot, the boys are all smiles and dangling off of their uncle’s shining silver arm. The sight of it reminds him that he really ought to visit Becca and the boys at some point, but Shelbyville and Brooklyn are a little more than a stone’s throw away and money, unfortunately, does not grow on trees. 

_ Note to self _, he compromises, _ text Becs for a Facetime date. _

His gaze shifts to the other item of note on the dresser: the aforementioned silver arm rests in its stand, gleaming in the morning light pouring in from the windows. Instinctively, Bucky rolls his shoulder back and forth. He doesn’t need to hook it on yet; in fact, he could keep it off all day if he wanted to, but this new model has been the best one he’s gotten so far - so much so that he’s forgotten it was a prosthetic at times.

After another yawn, Bucky finally rises from bed and crosses the room to the dresser. Thanks to a bunch of crazy sciencey technology he has no clue how to explain, points on his shoulder line up with points on the prosthetic arm when he holds it close enough, and they connect with ease. A second later, he’s wriggling his metal fingers and petting Alpine’s head. With this new prosthetic he can feel Alpine’s fur, her heartbeat, and her warmth, and despite having this new arm for close to nine months, the miracle of that still makes him chuckle.

From Friday to Tuesday, Bucky works as a pastry chef at a bakery in Midtown. His days start at three and finish just after noon, and he’s responsible for a variety of duties from shaping boules of sourdough to baking off buttery, caramel-sweet kouign amann and even the occasional croquembouche for a special occasion. It’s hard work and long hours, but Bucky delights in it. He knows his job and he does it well. His boss likes him well enough, and stopped staring at his arm after day three. It's a routine. It's planned. It's low-key. 

At 12:15 in the afternoon, like clockwork, Bucky emerges flour-dusted, nutmeg-scented, and content. Considering he never thought he’d be able to pursue this career after the car accident took his arm, he’s grateful to have this here, now.

Days off have a routine as well: wake, make coffee, proof cinnamon rolls, drink coffee, bake cinnamon rolls, pull cream cheese icing from the fridge, feed Alpine, eat the cinnamon rolls (with copious amounts of icing), drink more coffee, water the plants, then finally check emails. Somewhere in there he’s responded to texts (if he feels like it) and scrolled through instagram (a habit he has no intention of breaking). 

As far as days off go, this particular early spring day is pretty unremarkable right until he gets to the _ check emails _ part. 

Sitting in his inbox is an email that says it’s from Pepper Potts. _ The _ Pepper Potts. There’s only one Pepper Potts in the history of ever that Bucky can think of, and she owns - or at the very least runs - a chunk of Manhattan. From telecommunications to entertainment to real estate and a half dozen other things in between, Stark Industries has its hands in pretty much every pie (Bucky chuckles at his food pun) imaginable including Stark MedTech, the subsidiary that gave him his prosthetic arm.

To his surprise, however, the subject line makes no mention of his arm at all. Instead, it says:

**Pastry Chef Position Open**

The contents of the email are brief and to the point: Pepper Potts herself wants Bucky to come in for an interview. There’s a time (11am, reasonable), a place (her office at the top floor of some skyscraper in the financial district, epic views), a date (two days from now, _holy shit_), and an addendum not to worry since she’s the majority shareholder for the bakery he currently works for (of fucking course) so he shouldn’t feel bad should he choose to pursue this new position immediately.

There’s little else in the message, so Bucky has no idea if she’s hiring for another bakery or for a private chef, if it’s a one time gig or a full time job. He doesn’t even know how he wound up on her radar.

He’s terrified, so naturally, he picks up his phone and does the one thing that calms him when he’s terrified.

Two minutes later, his phone buzzes - a response to the text he’d sent.

**8:46am | Natalia  
** _Coming in 1hr. Need to buy u new outfit 4 interview._

Bucky sets his phone down, stares at his half-eaten cinnamon roll, and takes a shaky breath. 

This is very much a deviation in his routine.

“Fuck.”

* * *

“Hey Rogers, did you hear?”

Steve doesn’t answer America’s query with anything beyond an arched brow. 

As Test Kitchen Manager, America Chavez gets to work with all of the chefs and editors for the magazine the most and is, therefore, the source of all the news (read: gossip) going on in the building. The only person he _ would _ hear anything from is America. So he waits for her to continue, because the question isn’t so much an actual question as it is an introduction to what the newest juicy gossip is.

“Kate and Shuri saw Hope talking to The Red Hot Chili--”

“--you really shouldn’t call our boss that… it’s also a really lame joke--”

“--Pepper Potts,” she finishes with a wicked grin, “and they’re finally hiring a pastry chef.”

_ That _ finally catches Steve’s attention. He looks up from the pickles he’s been scooping into jars and tilts his head. “Oh?”

“Yep. Hope and Wanda finally convinced them that we needed a specialist rather than the two of them using their general knowledge and google skills.” She snatches a pickle with her fingers, earning a swat on the hand from Steve, but she’s successful in her acquisition, happily chomping on it as she continues with a dramatic swoon. “I think it’s a _ booooy_."

Steve snorts at how _ young _ she sounds saying that. He sighs, gazing out at the view from the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass windows running the northeast side of the kitchen. In the distance, he can see the Woolworth Building and around it, the rest of Lower Manhattan, ever-bustling with both splendour and squalor. The irony that he's pickling - traditionally done to preserve vegetables by those who would otherwise go without - because _homesteading is the newest fad and canning and jarring is all the rage this winter!_ is not lost on him. Especially as he does it on a Calacatta marble countertop worth tens of thousands of dollars. Ah, New York. Ever a city of juxtapositions.

America has to clear her throat to make him realise she's still waiting for him to volley back with a response, so Steve gives it.

“Why, everdearest America, does that matter?”

“It’ll be nice to have something new to ogle,” she shrugs, unabashed in her honesty. “There’s only so much flannel lumberbro dad I can take, Steve Rogers. It’ll be nice to have something different.”

“Kid, you don’t even like guys!” he says, flicking pickle juice in her general direction and earning a little shriek for his trouble. 

America - bless her - gives Steve (who has a hundred pounds and eight inches on her) a shove that does absolutely nothing. “I can still appreciate fine art when I see it. You don’t have to like to eat chocolate to know it’s shiny and tempered and nice to look at.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies, scrunching up his nose. “I think.” America turns to saunter back to her desk when he yells, “For the record? Sarah picked out my shirt today and _ she _ loves my flannel lumberbro dad look!”

Across the kitchen, Sam looks up from his laptop and glances down the room to where Clint, Scott, and Kate have picked up on the conversation. The camera on Clint’s shoulder has zeroed in on its sandy blonde-haired subject, his face now scarlet. “Uh, Steve? I dunno that proclaiming your four year old dressed you this morning is something to holler about.”

“You’re just jealous, Wilson. Sarah has _ excellent _ taste, even if she has you as a sorry excuse for a godparent.”

“If you’re gonna use that against me, I gotta remind you that _ you _ chose _ me_.”

Steve misses Sam’s shared grin with Clint, and it’s only when his phone explodes with notifications a few hours later that he realises what’s transpired: Clint Barton, one of two video directors for Bon Appetit's YouTube Channel and social media, has captured his exclamation in full high definition glory and posted it on Instagram and Twitter, complete with a ridiculous caption and adorable-eyed emojis.

There’s already a Twitter Moment talking about how _ BA’s Resident Hot Chef Steve Rogers Gets Dressed in the AM By His Baby Girl! _ The few photos of Steve with his little curly-haired daughter that he’s shared on his own social media are now in the deluge of comments, interspersed with gifs, heart-eye emojis, and what America would later describe as “innocent yet incredibly thirsty commentary” including but not limited to _“HNNNNGH why does he keep buying shirts one size too small?!”_

[ ](https://ibb.co/yk9b5R7)

“See,” she consoles him over his noontime coffee break (who needs lunch anyway?) as they scroll through the comments on his phone, “won’t it be nice to share the burden of being so hot and popular with someone else?”

Even as Steve’s cheeks and ears burn red, he grumbles, though his words have no heat behind them. “I hate you.”

The elevator to their floor swooshes open, and America glances from Steve to the two people entering the Test Kitchen, then back to Steve. Her eyes are wide as she mouths, _ “Oh boy.” _

Half-distracted by the Twitter comments, Steve’s expression is an adorably lost, “Huh?”

“Oh, perfect. You’re all here! Come on over, everyone.”

Pepper Potts’ voice is not a common sound on the 35th floor of the Condé Nast offices (especially not in the Test Kitchen), so when it's heard, pretty much everyone stands at attention. She’s dressed in a slate grey dress, perfectly tailored to fit, and her hair is swept back into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place. Though she commands authority, Pepper’s expression and countenance is kind and warm. She’s pretty much the best boss ever.

“Pep,” Steve greets, tucking his phone away and resting his forearms on the workbench. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to formally introduce our new hire to everyone,” Pepper replies, a bright smile on her lips. “This is James Barnes. He’s joining our team as our resident pastry chef and one of our senior food editors.”

Slowly, Steve’s gaze shifts from Pepper to the man standing behind her. James is sporting a floral button-down shirt tempered by a perfectly broken in leather jacket, dark grey slacks, and boots. His sharp jaw is accented by a fair amount of scruff, his eyes an ice blue, and he’s got an entirely unironic manbun, complete with artfully mussed tendrils of hair framing his face.

“Hey, everyone,” he says with a small smile, waving with one hand while the other stays firmly shoved in his pocket. “I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”

For once, Steve kind of thinks there’s credence to the whole too-small shirt commentary. At the risk of sounding very... extra and America-like, he _ does _ feel like his heart is going to burst out of his chest, which in turn will bust the seams of his shirt. The already-lovely view from the Test Kitchen just improved hundredfold.

James Barnes looks _ incredible. _

“Oh boy,” he echoes under his breath.

He has to tear his gaze away before he gets caught staring.

Steve fucking hates it when America’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are so inclined, you can find me [on twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jenofthemoon) and [on instagram](http://www.instagram.com/jenofthemoon) as jenofthemoon.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Any comments and/or flailing are always welcome. :)


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